Helena set her teeth hard in her lower lip. Having guarded her virtue when most children and women in the streets were robbed early on of that gift, surely she’d know if she was now without? One of the girls employed by Ryker had taken the liberty of answering the questions Helena once had about what occurred in the rooms rented by the powerful peers. Determined to maintain her freedom and safety, Helena had resolved to never marry. As such, she had not really given much thought on that long-ago lesson. Now she wished she had. She quickly ran through all the words imparted that day. There had been talk of pain and discomfort and bleeding, even during that first encounter. She shifted her buttocks, moving her legs experimentally. There was no pain.
Lifting the sheet ever so slightly, she glanced about for any hint of crimson stains. Instead . . . she gulped, her eyes landing on the broad, naked chest of her bed-partner. Coils of golden hair upon a muscular canvas. Her mouth went dry and she searched desperately for the far safer panic and fury. Instead, her curious eyes wandered downward.
He still wore breeches.
Grateful for small measures, Helena cast a prayer skyward.
The gentleman at her side let out another bleating snore and she jumped. He flung an arm across her stomach, effectively trapping her. His touch penetrated the thin fabric of her nightshift.
With panic wildly spiraling, she tried to lift his muscled arm from her person, but he may as well have been carved of iron.
If she could manage to quickly dress and escape, then none would be the wiser to the fact that she’d spent the night with this man. With her parentage and upbringing, she would never be a respected lady, but she had her virtue and that meant something in her world, where girls tossed away their virginity for some coin and a hot meal. She pressed the backs of her hands against her eyes. Or she had, until last evening. Panic grew in her breast, suffocating.
Renewing her wiggling, Helena managed to scoot out from under his arm. Free of his hold, she stopped. Holding her breath, she stole another glance at the stranger.
His thick, blond lashes fluttered, lashes that no man should have the good fortune to possess. He turned his head on the pillow and their gazes collided.
A lazy grin played on his firm lips. “You,” he said, his voice hoarse, and then he promptly winced.
No doubt alcohol had left him with the deuced awful headache. Good, the bloody bugger.
And because he had a grin as wide as the cat who’d caught the kitchen mouse, she hissed, “You bastard.” How dare he look so . . . so . . . pleased with himself.
His grin fell, and he blinked several times.
Helena snapped her eyebrows into a line. Did he believe she would be thrilled by his presence in her bed? The arrogance of these nobles. She opened her mouth to blister his ears.
“What are you doing in my rooms?” he asked, his voice gravelly. “Not that I’m complaining or ungrateful.” He winked.
Winked.
Winked?
As though she were some kind of Covent Garden doxy. “Did you wink at me?” Her hushed whisper shook with fury.
“I—”
Not wanting another one of his smug words or smiles, she used the full force of her body to shove him over the side of the bed. She panted heavily, out of breath from her exertions, rewarded a moment later as he landed with a loud thump.
He grunted, and then fell silent.
Gripping the edge of the mattress, she pulled herself over to glance down. Not taking her gaze from him, she fished around the edge of her bed for the handle of her dagger. Relief surged through her as her fingers met the reassuring cool of the steel blade.
“You certainly didn’t need to enter my rooms if you didn’t desire my attentions,” he drawled in that gruff, lazy baritone that ran warm over her.
“Your rooms?” she squawked. With stiff, jerky movements, she leapt off the bed and kicked him in the shins. “You, sir, entered mine.” She should have called for the guards last evening. Foolishly she’d believed the problem of the wandering stranger ended when she’d pointed him on his way, and then disappeared down the opposite hall.
So many mistakes. Too many of them.
The gentleman swiped his hands over his eyes. “Impossible,” he muttered, those clipped, precise tones, a testament to his birth, sending outrage spiraling all the more.
In a world where you possessed nothing more valuable than your word, this man would throw into question her honor? “I am not a liar,” she bit out, and kicked him again, this time in the lower portion of his well-muscled stomach. Who knew noblemen were so expertly sculpted in that region?
Fury flashed in his eyes, and he grunted. “If you are wise, madam, you will refrain from kicking me.”
Helena spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ve faced far more threatening creatures in my life,” unarmed no less, “than one inert, pompous toff.”
He tightened his mouth. “I must say I’ve never received quite a reaction after spending the night in a woman’s b—”
Helena buried her foot in his hip. “The insolence of you,” she whispered furiously. As though she’d ever bed such an insufferable, overbearing lout. She studied him a moment: tall, elegant, graceful, refined. Everything she would never have. Everything she should never want. He remained seated with his knees drawn up, sinfully beautiful even in repose.
She swallowed hard. Rule fifty-seven . . . do not desire insufferable, overbearing noblemen. She brought her foot back. In one swift movement, he caught her ankle and yanked hard.
Helena gasped, and teetered precariously. She shot her arms out, righted herself, and brought her heel down hard on the inset of his palm, satisfaction surging through her at the hiss of pain to slip past his lips.
“Bloody hell,” he barked.
Again, he tugged at her ankle.
She toppled forward. Her blade flew over his shoulder and fell uselessly to the carpet. Sprawled upon his naked chest, she forlornly eyed her weapon. Disarmed by a fancy lord. Whatever would her brother say?
Helena stiffened as the man settled his hands loosely about her waist, hovering a moment, and then traveled higher, almost searching, exploring her. He rolled her onto the carpet and came up over her. He propped himself upon his elbows and effectively blocked escape.
Trapped in the frame of his powerful arms, she swallowed hard. Weren’t lords supposed to be well-padded, well-rounded figures? This gentleman was chiseled in muscle to rival a stone statue she’d once seen at the British Museum she’d insisted Ryker take her to one birthday. They two had earned disapproving glances and condescending sneers from the other visitors that day. It had been the last time she’d ever wanted to enter the glittering world of the haute ton.
“My name is Robert.”
She gritted her teeth. “I don’t care if you are a duke or prince or the King of England.” The ghost of a smile played on his lips, and he palmed her cheek, quelling the vitriolic curses she’d been about to heap on his arrogant head. Her breath caught at his gentle caress. Never in the course of her life had a man put his hands upon her in anything other than violence. As a young woman and now a woman, her brother would maim or kill the man who dared to touch her as this man now did. For a heady moment borne of madness, she closed her eyes and accepted the gentle ministrations of even this stranger. “After our meeting in the corridor, I do not remember last evening,” he said quietly. He brushed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip and her mouth trembled.
Was there regret in his admission?
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep silent.
“What is your name?” he pressed.
She shot a longing glance over to the door and a brownish-red tress fell over her eye. She blew it back. When it became apparent he had no intention of relinquishing his strong hold on her, she capitulated. “Helena.”
“Helena,” he repeated, as though testing it. He brushed the stubborn lock back. “It rather suits you.”
Perhaps noblemen were sorcerers after all. For inst
ead of the appropriate reservations, the hard wall of his body flush against hers stirred a shameful wanton heat at her core. “Why?” The breathy utterance tumbled from her lips.
Robert brought the strand to his nose and breathed in. “Whimsical, fanciful, bold. There is nothing common about you, Helena.”
She curled her toes into the soles of her feet. A bastard daughter raised in the streets by a violent gang of warring young men, there was everything common about her.
Which only stirred the long-carried hatred and fury for all men of his ilk, who’d failed to see lesser people like her around, and killed the hypnotic hold he’d woven. “How fancy you are with your words,” she spat. “I’m not so foolish that I’d be swayed by your glib tongue.” Deep inside, where truth lived, she recognized the lie there. “But then a man who’d force himself inside a woman’s room and steal into her bed would hardly care.” She renewed her struggles, twisting and gyrating under him, ringing an agonized groan from Lord Robert With-No-Surname.
“Will you stop moving?” There was a pleading quality to those words, as if he were in pain.
Then against her belly, his manhood prodded her and she froze. She was a virgin still, but she was not so much an innocent that she didn’t understand the significance of that hardness. Heat scorched a path up her body.
With his thumb, the stranger continued that distracting little movement that sent the oddest flurry of sensation throughout her being. He went on, his tone far gentler than she’d expect from one such as him. “I’d not ever force myself on a woman.”
No, with a face and frame to rival the archangel Gabriel, he wouldn’t need to. She clamped her lips tight.
“Nor do I normally make it a habit of getting soused . . .” A mottled flush stained his cheeks as though he were embarrassed by his actions last evening. Which was preposterous.
Noblemen were overindulgent, self-serving cads who placed their material comforts above all else. “I do not normally imbibe as I did,” he finished quietly.
She pressed her lips into a firm line, stoically silent. All gentlemen indulged as he had. The dwindling week’s supply of spirits was testament of that.
“You need to leave,” she said quietly, as reason righted her world. It mattered not the mistakes that had found him in her chambers, or her outraged fury. Now, all that mattered was getting rid of him before—
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and then someone rapped on her door. Helena’s heart caught and she swung her gaze to the front of the room. “Are you awake?” Clara asked through the wood panel. “Ryker wants you in his office,” Clara called. Helena’s mind raced. She wasn’t scheduled to meet with Ryker. Why would he . . . ?
The ticking of the clock thundered in her chambers. Of its own volition, her gaze went to the intruder. She needed to get Robert out now!
Another knock split the quiet. “Helena?” Concern laced the other woman’s tone. Well, mayhap not this exact moment.
“I believe she requires an—”
At that mellifluous whisper, Helena wiggled her hand free and slammed her palm over the man’s lips. “Er . . . j-just a moment,” she called out, glaring him into silence.
“Did you say something?”
“No!” she called.
Clara jiggled the door handle. “Is everything all right? Should I get Ryk—”
“Fine! I’m fine,” she said, steadying her voice. “Tell him I’ll be but a moment.”
With the woman’s retreating footsteps, Helena swung her gaze back to the stranger who’d stolen into her bedsheets and dragged her fingers through her tangled hair. Oh, God. What if Clara had gone to fetch Ryker? If he discovered this stranger in her chambers, Ryker would bloody him within an inch of his life, and then her judgment would forever be questioned in sleeping with a nobleman, and then who knew what he’d do. She closed her eyes once more, frozen.
Tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock.
Oh, bloody hell. This was bad.
Very bad, indeed.
Chapter 5
Rule 5
Always be prepared to properly defend yourself.
Robert should release the fiery vixen. It was, after all, the gentlemanly thing to do, and no one in the realm would dare accuse Robert of anything but being a gentleman. Well, a rogue, mayhap . . . but never a scoundrel who’d prey on a woman who did not desire his intentions.
When he’d brought the then-nameless Spartan warrioress down beneath him, his original intention had merely been to put a quick end to her assault. Now, with the dagger gone from her hands and her feet clearly contained, he paid attention to far more pleasurable details. Her small breasts pressed against his naked chest, the nipples pebbling against his skin. Desire surged through him, momentarily blotting out logic and all earlier threats from this woman’s mouth.
Robert lowered his brow to hers.
She flared her eyes. “Wh-what are you d-doing?” she whispered, that faint, husky tremor hinting at her desire.
“Kissing you.” For even as she’d never possess the beauty to inspire sonnets or poets, there was something captivating about her.
She squeaked. “You most certainly aren’t. Not unless you wish to feel the wrath of Ryker.” Except instead of turning away, she closed her eyes and angled her head up ever so slightly to receive his kiss.
He smiled. The spirited vixen was a riddle wrapped in a puzzle.
“Very well,” he drawled, and Helena’s eyes flew open.
“Who is Ryker?” He settled his hands on her waist to still her enticing movements.
Her eyes formed round circles. “Uh . . . Mr. Black. The proprietor of the club.” Ah, the infamous owner of the Hell, known only as Black. “He wouldn’t tolerate anyone wandering his apartments or touching me.”
She was Black’s mistress, then. A rush of disappointment followed that revelation. With her spirit and passion, she would prove an enthusiastic lover. The notoriously ruthless owner would no doubt take apart the man who’d dared put his lips and hands upon her person. “He expects loyalty then.”
Helena jutted her chin up a notch. “He commands loyalty with his actions.”
A surge of jealousy potent and powerful ran through him at the sign of her faithfulness. As the recipient of nothing but treachery and deceit, he’d long ago accepted no woman’s intentions were truly honorable, but rather always self-serving. With her defense, this woman contradicted all he’d long accepted as truth.
“Mayhap,” he whispered against her ear, deliberately baiting. “But your breathlessness hints at your desire for me.” Robert brushed his mouth over hers, in a fleeting kiss, allowing her to pull away. But she leaned into his embrace, returning his kiss. Robert drew back and she blinked rapidly.
A gasp spilled from her lips and she wiggled her knee. “Bastard,” she gritted as he shifted, narrowly missing her blow. “I want you gone and if you’re wise, you’ll not come back.” No doubt those were the truest words ever spoken in this club. And yet . . . With a grunt, he rolled to his side and in one fluid movement, drew her back against him. The minx wiggled her rounded buttocks and his shaft jumped. With a groan, he closed his eyes, and counted to ten. Then prayed for patience and when both proved ineffective, he laid her down upon the floor once more.
He searched his gaze over her face. “Do you want me to release you?” he whispered against the corner of her mouth.
Her long brown lashes fluttered wildly and she leaned into him. She gave her head the slightest shake.
After Lucy’s treachery he’d come to appreciate that the safest, truest connection with a woman was the pleasure to be found in her arms. Robert rolled to his side and pulled her close, so quickly their bodies never broke contact.
“What are you d-doing?” Her breathless question enflamed his senses.
He touched the tip of his finger to her lower lip. Even in his drunken stupor the previous evening, her spirit had beckoned. Though she’d never be considered any beauty in any sense of the word, there was a raw
realness to the woman that set her apart from any of the respectable ladies or less respectable courtesans he’d ever met. “Kissing you again.”
He braced for the flash of spirit in her expressive eyes. Instead, a breathy sigh escaped her, the faint stirring of air brushing against his skin, and she tipped her head back.
Desire pulsing through him, Robert slowly lowered his mouth close to hers. If she pulled away, if she rejected him in the slightest, he’d set her free. “I do not remember how I came to be in your bed, only that I did. My only regret is that I was too bloody soused to remember the feel of you in my arms.”
Her breath caught on an audible intake.
This woman in his arms would forever remind him of the perils of drink. To not recall what had transpired, if anything at all, was the greatest of tragedies. “And if I let you go now, if I let you flee without kissing you, I shall forever regret it.”
Only, he suspected that after feeling her lush hips in his hand, the swell of her buttocks, that a mere kiss would never be enough.
He trailed the tip of his tongue over the seam of her lips.
Her breath caressed his lips. “Y-you shouldn’t,” she said, the protest halfhearted.
He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth. “I should,” he whispered. “May I kiss you?”
Surprise glinted in her eyes, but she said nothing and with a groan he took her lips under his. Slanting his mouth over hers again and again. The seductive scent of lavender and lemon that clung to her skin invaded his senses, more intoxicating than all of the spirits he’d consumed last evening, and he deepened his kiss.
With a moan she slipped her arms from between their bodies, and twined them about his neck. Encouraged, he took her hips firmly in hand and anchored her to the center of his thighs.
A low, strangled groan spilled from her lips and he swallowed the sound. Robert found her tongue with his, tasting, exploring, branding her as his.
The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1) Page 7